[Closed] Now And Then, Here And There

[Yazad]

The Stacks

9th of Vortas, 2719; Morning

"Thank you for accompanying me. These roads are rather convoluted, and lacking in distinctive marks." Yazad chimed in his clear, silvery voice. His eyes looked up at the man walking by his side--a rare occurrence, given the reason for them going out.

It was not yet winter, not even the end of Vortas, but the creeping chill was still more than what Yazad would normally put up with without additional layers of clothing. Therefore, for today, his set of liveries was topped with a coat matching his peacock green ribbon in color. It was not closed all the way around his body, allowing him a degree of freedom in movement, but the front opening also meant that his coat was flapping every time a gust of wind blew through the street they walked. His companion, with his lack of an actual coat, did not have the same problem.

"I do not understand why we must be out looking for florists. There is one not too far away from the house." Sophronios would have sounded as if he was grumbling if his voice was not inherited monotonous. The suit he sported -a deep blue one that was many hues darker than his eyes- was just the first thing that he could manage to wear when the passive was insisting that he accompanies him to a walk through The Stacks, looking for florists of all things.

"Naturally you do not understand, this is why it is my responsibility.” Yazad retorted with a chuckle and a dismissive wave of his hand. But of course the obsessive galdor would not understand the need for some visual appeal in a house that he barely left except to be giving classes at the Brunnhold campus. The younger of the two, however, saw things differently. He did not mind going through a bit of legwork and trouble to get exactly what he wants and nothing less. “The florist you mention is...acceptable, and nothing more. One would want more than the same three types of flowers to decorate a home with. And before you begin protesting--no, roses and peonies are not the same. Just as plums and apples are not the same." Yazad delivered the words in the assured tone of a man who was certain that he had made a convincing argument. Because, as far as he is concerned, he did.

It was not only the vases that he wanted to fill with all sorts of eye-pleasing flower arrangements. Yazad wished to obtain at least one potted plant for his own room and to inquire about their options if he was to have a few more flower beds arranged in the house’s little yard. That would be another thing for him to explain the need for to Sophronios, but it should not be a difficult thing to do. The sign of a Palazzo di Rhodon establishment told him that they were not in a familiar part of The Stacks, though to be fair, very few parts are.

"What did you just say?" Sophronios responded with a snap of his head, eyes widening slightly in a look that Yazad knew all too well.

“I said many things, sir." The shorter of the two males replied cautiously. Ah, here it comes. It was rather optimistic of him to think that they can just have a normal walk to a florist and then get back home for lunch.

"That part about roses and peonies not being the same. Indeed, they are not, but roses and plums are of the same family. Not the same genus, perhaps, but what if--" The blank look visibly displayed on Yazad’s face did little to deter Sophronios from his mumbled rambling. "I must look into this." The galdor stated, turning around and walking back through the alleyway in haste.

“Sophronios Adolphus Logarchon!"

"I will be at my office."

And with that, Yazad found himself alone in the middle of a vacant alley, no longer with a more navigationally-gifted man to help him, and slightly frowning in disbelief at the other’s act of betrayal. The urge to follow Sophronios back home just to tell him how awful he is -although Yazad felt no actual anger- was stomped down, and the passive simply closed his eyes and began to draw in a long, calming breath. It was easy enough for him to pull from his seemingly endless well of patience, but it was still a disappointment for his morning to not go as he hoped it would. Alas, this was nothing new, and life must go on. This was nothing to be bothered about, and everything is fine.

When the man’s pale green eyes opened again, they picked up an almost missable, tiny blur of black down on the cobbled path. It took less than a few seconds for the realization to set in, and for fear to spike almost uncontrollably. Yazad’s reactive shriek was muffled quickly with the hands he clasped over his mouth, his eyes flying wide open as they watched the abominable creature scutting about the ground. For a moment, the passive was frozen in place, his body screaming for him to run away, and his mind telling him to not turn around lest the vile cockroach comes for his back.

Now And Then, Here And There

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Morning, Vortas 9, 2719
An Alley near Palazzo di Rhodon, The Stacks

Niccolette had risen early that morning. She planned to be in Brunnhold less than a week; all the same, upon arriving the night before, she had unpacked the case of pure white candles into the chamber for the maid she had not brought.

The Palazzo di Rhodon knew her by now; the room had been empty of furniture and rugs, and swept clean. Niccolette had set out the candles one by one, kneeling on the ground, until the large plot of them was complete, heedless of the noises of the hotel’s staff unpacking her bags in the other room. When the last had been in place, she had risen, and gone outside.

There had not been time for meditation, last night; there had been too much to do. This morning, though, upon waking as the first hint of sunlight crept through the balcony doors, Niccolette had gone in nothing more than her white nightgown to the small side room; she had knelt in the midst of the candles, and lit them each, one by one, with match in her cupped hands. The flame burned down the stick until she felt the warmth against her fingertips; she did not rush even then, but shook the match out with a flick of her wrist, and went on to the next.

She meditated, then; she knelt in the center of the candles, and breathed steadily in and out. The flames bent towards her and away on the rhythm of her breath. It was all centered around her breath; this was the root of everything, which washed from Niccolette out into the world, and carried back all that was around her. In time she began to chant, syllables of monite made by repetition as familiar as her own name, tucked beneath the inhales and exhaled.

She did not keep a count of the minutes or hours; she paid no mind to them. She knew only that she focused, and that, in time, her focus ended. She extinguished the candles one by one, lifting each candle and blowing it out with a soft exhale, setting it back in place and moving to the next.

Niccolette cleaned up the drops of wax from the floor and from the candles, steadily, for this too was part of the meditation, for this too was part of honoring the mona.

Niccolette bathed, afterwards, scrubbing herself pink and clean, and finally she rang the bell for the maid to help her dress. Her dress was a rich velvet blue, a feminine cut, with a little suggestion of a men’s waistcoat in the way the buttons ran across the front of it; her hair, as always, was loose over her shoulders. She wore eyeliner and dusky lip color, just enough of both to shape her face.

Niccolette pulled on her warm, fur-lined cloak; she looked at herself in the mirror, one last time, steadily, and then down at her hands. She took hold of the wedding ring on her left hand with the fingers of her right, turning it, slowly, around her finger. She let it go, then, and smoothed both hands against the soft fabric of her skirt.

Niccolette went downstairs past the garden; she did not bother with breakfast, or even tea or coffee, but instead made her way out of the hotel. There was a bookshop she wished to visit before heading to campus, and spending the brunt of her day in the library there.

Niccolette was not afraid of the alleyways of the Stacks; she was many years past taking caution with where she walked. She turned off the main street and down a small side way, and would have gone on without thinking anything of the dark haired man facing away from her if he hadn’t let out a tiny, frightened shriek.

Niccolette stopped, jarred briefly from her thoughts. She studied him, and then traced his gaze down to a small dark spot on the ground.

Niccolette made made her way casually past the man - a passive, she noticed, with a tinge of something like curiosity - and stepped on the cockroach unhesitatingly with her delicate heeled boots. It crunched beneath her foot; the sound did not bother her, and never had.

She turned, tilting her head to study the young man; her eyebrows lifted slightly, and then Niccolette turned as if to walk away.

[Yazad]

The Stacks

9th of Vortas, 2719; Morning

T he passive felt his heart beating a little faster against his ribcage--a feeling that was so rare to the usually unflappable man, brought about by the presence of a single insect in his path. He would have been far less bothered if he had encountered a large wild animal, or even a viper. Only the small black terror before him could ever make Yazad feel this frightened, this close to the foreign edge of panic. He should probably back away slowly, keeping his eyes on the disgusting creature until he can make a quick exit through the other end of the alleyway. Slowly, his feet moved to do just that.

Yazad could only manage half a pace before he sensed movement on his side. A person -a woman with a rather noticeable presence- passed by him, allowing his eyes only the briefest of glimpses of her profile before all he could see was her back. "Careful, madam. There is a--" Yazad’s shakey warning turned into a soft yelp of surprise when the woman he was just trying to caution walked straight towards the cockroach--and stepped on it to produce a disturbing crunch that made his skin crawl.

Repulsion rose immediately inside the man’s chest, coupled with a strange mixture of utter disgust and astounded awe. No words came from his mouth following the fearless slaughter; or at least, what felt to him like one. Do not look, do not look. Yazad told himself repeatedly to not look at whatever crushed remains would be there when the lady removed her foot. Those shoes, he thought with distaste, would be burned and replaced if it were him. But then again, never would he ever do something as nauseating -and admittedly, as brave- as making a cockroach forcefully meet the sole of his boots.

Swallowing gently, the passive looked at the face of his unlikely savior. He wanted to smile and express his thanks, he wanted to rub his arms to dispel the goosebumps he felt, but he ended up doing nothing in the end. Yazad could only stare at a face that he was so sure he had seen before. A face that came with distant and slightly faded memories of a swollen cheek, sparkling diamonds, and an intense sensation of overwhelming fields.

He knew her. He knew that he knew her. He was very sure of it. But her name still elusively escaped his grasp. She had told him that day, certainly, she did. Yazad could remember the protectiveness he felt towards her, the white peony he chose to go with her glass of wine, the fallen eyelash that led to a wish being made.

What was it? What was her name?

He almost got it. It was sitting there, teasingly, on the tip of his tongue.

"Madam Niccolette?" The name burst forth, just as the woman looked like she was about to turn around and leave. Yazad took a step forward, hands pressed against his chest. "You are Madam Niccolette Villamarzana, are you not?".

Now And Then, Here And There

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Morning, Vortas 9, 2719
An Alley near Palazzo di Rhodon, The Stacks

The passive only stared at her, wide-eyed and, Niccolette thought, a little stupidly, as if his attention had been transferred from the cockroach to her. He didn’t shriek again, at least, just stared. There was something sort of intent about it, and it stretched out a little, into a long sort of silence which held in the cold, damp alley air.

He was just of a height with her; he had dark hair, and was slight of build, with a round face. He did not, Niccolette noticed, wear the pale blues of Brunnhold, far from it, in fact, she thought, studying the elegant drape of his coat’s hem.

All of it, still, was not quite enough to hold her interest. Her gaze was drifting away and her body turning to follow it when he moved, a little abruptly, and spoke.

Madam Niccolette, he said, in an unmistakable Flornese accent; between the words and the clay, Niccolette thought, there could be no mistaking it. Niccolette Villamarzana.

Niccolette looked back over her shoulder; all of her turned back to follow. She took one step, and then another, closing most of the distance between them. Her head tilted, just a little, studying him. Her field flexed, subtly, in the air around them; it was already full, sharp and bright from her morning meditations. She did not bring the full intensity of it to bear on the passive, but enough that - unless his non-functioning ley lines were very dull indeed, he should feel it.

“I have not used the name Villamarzana in many years,” Niccolette said, coolly, and almost disdainfully.

With anyone else from Bastia, she might have felt a touch of fear or anger; she thought of Captain Giordanetto and his subtle, threatening mentions of her father, and remembered well the rage that had kindled in her stomach, and swept through her like flame.

It was not, of course, that she thought anymore that all passives were as dull as she had once. Perhaps she had, in her youth, but she knew better now - at least, she knew enough of an exception to be unsure. It was not that she thought a passive could not be a threat, for she knew one, at least, who did not hesitate.

But her father of all people, Niccolette knew, would not send one. So it was not quite the sour tang of fear she tasted or the comforting heat of rage, but something stranger, balanced between uncertainty and confusion. She met the young man - younger, she thought, than he had seemed from behind - and waited, hands crossed before her, and her elegant gold ring gleaming on the left.

She could not place him, and yet he knew her name; whatever she did or did not fear, Niccolette intended to know why.

[Yazad]

The Stacks

9th of Vortas, 2719; Morning

D oubt began to creep up within Yazad after his question met an ominously delayed reaction. There was no immediate confirmation, nor was there immediate denial. Instead, the woman before him -whom he still thought was Niccolette Villamarzana- slowly turned to face him, then began to close the small distance between them. This would not normally be of any discomfort to the passive if not for the growing sensation of a field much stronger than his non-existent one encroaching upon his space. It was not a feeling that he quite liked, especially since he did not know what else to do about it except--feel it. He was nonplussed, and despite his efforts to maintain his composure, it showed in the slight pressing of his lips against one another, and the way his fingers of his right hand dug into his left upper arm in a slight squeeze.

"Ah, well--" The raven-haired man’s expression swung briefly between puzzlement and relief, before settling on the latter. "This means that you are indeed Madam Niccolette, then." Yazad’s tone would have been more delighted with the affirmation that he had indeed found the girl from that ballroom in Florne had the woman not spoken her last name with such venomous contempt.

A quick inspection with his eyes revealed something that he had previously missed--a gleaming piece of jewelry circling the lady’s left ring finger, and perhaps the reason she did not respond well to the family name she had given him many years ago. The smile tugging at his lips was a little calmer when he spoke again. "Ah, pardon me. I assume that you have adopted a different surname? Congratulations on your nuptials." Yazad added politely with a graceful bow. It was to be expected that a woman of both status and beauty would be married by now. Naturally, he did not know her age and he was not about to ask a lady the tactless question of how old she is, but he remembered her looking like a young adult back when they met.

"Would you happen to remember the ball at The Agathangelou Ballroom, around eight years ago?" Seeing the crossed arms and unchanging expression, he stated his inquiry with cordial civility, hoping to stimulate the other’s recollection. "We met there. You let me try on your beautiful earrings, and you were--...wearing blue as well." The passive just could not bring himself to mention that she had been slapped, and to remind her that he had witnessed it. Everything about his memory with Niccolette made him smile, except that one unpleasant part.

Now And Then, Here And There

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Morning, Vortas 9, 2719
An Alley near Palazzo di Rhodon, The Stacks

Niccolette’s eyebrows lifted at the politely offered congratulations and the quick bow; otherwise, she made no particular reaction. She had not missed the way the passive’s face had tensed, or the pressing of his hand into his upper arm.

Something eased in her face when he mentioned the ballroom. Her gaze swept over him again; her eyebrows lifted, but this time there was a faint smile on her face. The pressure of her field in the air around her eased, though he was still in the depths of it, sharp and bright – but not, so to speak, pricking against his skin.

“Yazad,” Niccolette said, for she had made a note of his name, then, and what Niccolette made a note of she rarely forgot. “I do remember you – you brought me wine with a flower,” she grinned, then, suddenly. “I did not recognize you – nor, I think, did I expect to see you here,” she glanced around the alleyway, a little amused, and then back at the passive. "You have grown," she added.

She did remember him; the strange encounter with the passive and his master at the Agathangelou ball had been one of a handful of highlights in a summer which had been mostly lows. It had been her last summer in Florne, that one; she had come back from it to her final term at Brunnhold, and at the end of it she had married, and severed the last of already strained ties with her parents.

Niccolette remembered, too, what had brought her to the small room where she had sat, gathering herself and making conversation with Yazad. She remembered that, well and crisply, as she remembered every time.

When she thought back on it now, it was only to think it strange she had thought, then, she knew sorrow. Whatever she had felt then, she was not ashamed of now; whatever she had done, she had not regretted and still did not regret. It had not been long before then, Niccolette thought, that she had learned what it was to love.

It was only earlier this year, Niccolette thought, that she had learned what it was to lose.

Niccolette shrugged her shoulders, the folds of her cloak fluttering with the movement; she put such thoughts aside, just now. She knew too well the languishing in them; she knew too well how they ached, and how easily they could swallow her whole. Of late, she had had more and more days where she could hold them at bay; of late, there were even days when she did not weep, or at least not to remark upon.

“I suppose now it has become a habit, our meeting in unexpected places,” Niccolette said, still smiling. “But what are you doing here?”

[Yazad]

The Stacks

9th of Vortas, 2719; Morning

Y azad exhaled a soft breath as he felt the unseen flux washing over his body slightly dulling. It was difficult to tell if the chill he felt was the product of that passing gust of wind, or the uncomfortable thought of what a galdor’s field felt like at full force. It was not something that he wishes to experience, but things like that were largely out of his control. At the very least -and this is one thing to be glad about- Niccolette’s face had lost some of the intense sharpness from before.

"Indeed I am. You remember me." Relief and gaiety took over the passive’s face, replacing the look of uncertainty he had on before. His gloved fingers releasing the flesh of his arm and resting on his chest instead. With how things were just a moment ago, he was starting to believe that their encounter eight years ago had been lost from the other’s memory. And would that not be expected? Someone like her, a galdor of high society, no doubt more people in a year than he will ever do in his entire life. In comparison, the number of people he met ever since that ball could sit easily below double digits, and that is counting the grocer and tailor he recently made acquaintances within The Stacks.

"A white peony, I recall. I am more certain of that than of me having brought wine or a cocktail." Yazad remarked lightheartedly, remembering how he could not tell the difference back then. And just when he had thought that the woman had sulked through the past number of years, her mouth split into a grin that was reflected by the passive himself. Upon hearing the woman’s last remark, Yazad’s head tilted slightly as his smile grew brighter and his cheeks redder. "Oh my, I do take that as a compliment. I, however, cannot say the same about you. You appear just as young as I remember you." Naturally so, as people did not tend to change appearances drastically once they were past their years of adolescence, Yazad thought. The fact that Niccolette was at a ball was in itself telling enough of what her possible age range could be.

At that moment, the full realization of how much -and how fast- time had passed came to Yazad. Eight years it had been, and time still steadily marched forward; unstoppable. Fate worked in such amusing ways, the passive firmly believed in that and was intrigued by it. Had Sophronios not left him in the middle of the alleyway alone, had they continued on without incident, then he and the fellow Bastian woman would not have met on account of a terrorizing and now disposed of insect. His life had certainly changed ever since the night spent at the Agathangelou ball, but certainly, not to earth-shattering effect. It brought forth the question of how the life of Niccolette could have possibly changed during her time from dressed-up girl to fully-grown woman.

Yazad gave off a nod to her words, chuckling at the truth behind them despite the humor. "A pleasant surprise both times, I must say. Though I must admit that I wish our meeting could have happened in a more...dignified manner." The raven-haired man softly cleared his throat, his hand motioning in the general direction of the squashed creature. Or what he assumed is that, anyway. He still did not dare look. "I have left the house with the good master earlier. Alas, he had to make a hasty return, so here I am." Yazad answered the lady’s question smilingly. Whatever disappointment he felt previously was gone. The long list of words he had thought of to chide the galdor at home had been all but erased from his head. He was never someone who stayed upset for more than a few moments.

"What about the good madam? You do not happen to be out looking for a florist as well, I assume?" The curious inquiry was reflected back at Niccolette, his hands now neatly folded atop one another over his midriff.

Now And Then, Here And There

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Morning, Vortas 9, 2719
An Alley near Palazzo di Rhodon, The Stacks

Yazad had relaxed once she recognized him; there was a bright grin on his face, and all the tension in his shoulders had gone.

Just as young as I remember you, Yazad had said, brightly.

Niccolette paid little mind to it as a compliment; she knew what she looked like, once more. She could bear looking in the mirror these days, after the long months when she had had to steel herself for even a glance. This morning she had watched, undaunted, as the maid had done the long rows of buttons which she wore; she had leaned close, and looked squarely at herself as she did her lip color and eye liner, with a careful, practiced hand.

The meditation, Niccolette thought idly, made it easier to bear. Compared to a year ago her cheekbones were still sharper, more defined; all of her, perhaps, was. Grief, Niccolette thought, looking at it squarely, did that to one; it burnt away some of that which had been there before, that which you could no longer cling to in the midst of its all-consuming flame. So it had been for her, at least.

She had never had much patience for pleasantries; that had never changed.

“No,” Niccolette said, raising her eyebrows lightly. A florist, she thought, amused. She could not have named the flower Yazad had brought her all those years ago, though she remembered it being on the tray – more for its incongruity than anything. It had been a strange, sharp night, that one.

She did not much care for flowers; she never had.

“I am headed to a bookseller,” Niccolette said.

Having been asked half an hour ago – fifteen minutes ago – Niccolette would have said she was not in the mood for company. Perhaps she still was not. It would not have been hard for her to turn and leave the boy in the alleyway – for now that she recognized him, it was hard not to think of him as a boy still. It would not have been hard not to stop in the first place; it had been an impulse to do so, and though she did not regret it, neither was she certain she should make a habit of such.

Niccolette did not leave immediately; she did not plan, either, to dawdle. After a moment, her head titled, very slightly, as she looked at the boy. “I go towards Ripenon Court,” Niccolette added, casually. “You may accompany me, if you like.”

She gave him a moment more, and then she turned, the hem of her skirt and cloak swirling against the ground, and set off, boots clicking evenly against the paved alleyway, stepping around the snow which clung still to the shade here and there, and the wet puddles which lingered where the storm of a few days earlier had melted.

[Yazad]

The Stacks

9th of Vortas, 2719; Morning

T he ‘no’ Niccolette had uttered caused only a small downward curve in the passive’s fine eyebrows. He did not expect any other answer, for life rarely -if ever- worked this conveniently. The fact that he had ran into the woman was in itself miraculous enough. Was the gloomy chill of a cloud-cloaked Vortas morning the reason Niccolette felt distant at times? It almost appeared as if the woman was there in front of him, yet not at the same time. A body present but a mind somewhere else. Well, that could be said for anyone who is awfully busy, or has too much to occupy their thoughts. He knew that, he understood that--but he also felt slight sadness at the realization that anything that makes a person be like this could never be something good.

"Ah, that was no more than wishful thinking on my part." Yazad responded smilingly to the comment regarding the woman seeking a bookseller. It would be shameful to admit -even to himself- that he did not expect a galdor lady to be out early in the morning to make a purchase of books, as his image of those interested in tomes and studying was very much linked to that of the subtly crazed man he lived with. Did the same madness of scholarly interest drive Niccolette as well, or was she after one of those novels his master disdainfully referred to as ‘nonsense for those with enough time to be faffing about’? It should not matter to him either way, for she was not his responsibility, unlike Sophronios.

There was an awkward moment of odd lingering, where the woman looked as if she was considering something and the raven-haired man was not sure if she was going to say something else or not. Her small tilt was mirrored by Yazad, who half-expected her to excuse herself and walk away any moment. That did seem like something a woman of few words would do. Yazad’s lips parted to speak a polite and -inwardly- disappointed farewell following her statement of where she was going, but her next words, as it turned out, were not those of departure--not entirely, anyway.

A warmth that contrasted with the cold around them filled Yazad’s rosy features. The invitation, terse as it was, had been both appreciated and gladdening. What a shame it would be to meet after so many years only to part so soon after. The man did not know a thing of what this Ripenon Court is, nor how far it is from where they are, but was not going to be the reason that he turned someone’s invitation down. Not unless it was winter, then he will most definitely not want to be someone without a fireplace if he can help it. Lost in his reading about apples and plums -or whatever it is that the man was blathering about-, Sophronios is not likely to be missing his presence for the rest of the morning.

"That I shall do since you permit me." The passive chimed the reply, bowing his head slightly before moving to follow the other’s lead. With graceful nimble-footedness that came with his ‘secret’ hobby, he adjusted his pace to be a near-identical match for that of Niccolette. Not even he knew exactly why he felt the need to always do that. Yazad mused, thinking that he must like the harmonious sound of two sets of footfalls merging together. "Are you visiting these...fine...parts, madam? Or have you moved residence as we have?" Civil as he was trying to be, Yazad found it difficult to think of Brunnhold and The Stacks as very ‘fine’ parts. They did have their own charms, inarguably, but they were no Florne.

Now And Then, Here And There

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Morning, Vortas 9, 2719
Various Streets, The Stacks

Yazad smiled and came after her; he caught her easily enough, and they walked side by side down the damp street.

It was, Niccolette thought idly, an odd hour; it was later than the hours when tradesmen, servants and the like made their way across the streets to begin their day, but earlier than one typically found people out and about in a place like the Stacks. Niccolette knew this, but did not much mind; she had never precisely paid attention to such guidelines, nor even when they veered over into rules.

In short: Niccolette wished to be here, and so she was.

Niccolette’s gaze swept around at the term these fine parts; her lips twitched at a smile, although she was somewhere shy of laughter. “In fact when you met me, this is where I lived,” Niccolette said, casually, well aware of the thickness of her Flornese accent. She had lived now in Anaxas and Mugroba - outside of Florne - for the better part of two decades and had never lost it.

And why should she? Niccolette was Bastian; she spoke in the way Bastians spoke. She had no desire to modulate her speech to make it more palatable for anyone. It did not matter how long she lived outside Bastia; she was and always would be Bastian at heart.

“I am mostly in Vienda and the Rose these days,” Niccolette added. She could have said too that her home was - had been - the Muluku Islands; she did not. For all that she had visited Dzum two months before - her first since the Intas before - she found just then that the thought of speaking of it casually seemed to choke her, to stick in her throat, and she could not abide it.

“In fact it has been nearly since we last met that I have been to Florne,” Niccolette have a little shrug of her shoulders. If she had known, she thought, not for the first time, she would have taken Uzoji to see it. Grief rolled over her like a wave, but she had long since become used to drowning in the depths of it, and yet somehow still breathing.

Nothing of it showed on her face or in her field; her hands did not tighten or clench, or settle on the familiar comfort of her side. If her right thumb ran once over the ring on her left ring finger, it was once and only once, and she did not indulge in doing it again.

Niccolette knew their route well enough; she led them through the alley, and onto one of the larger thoroughfares. Here whatever snow had fallen had been pressed to the sides of the cobblestones, piled in heaps which had become gray and sludgey in the time since. Shops were open, the phosphor lights were out, and there was at least a quiet hum of activity, if not more.

“How long have you been here?” Niccolette asked, arching an eyebrow in Yazad’s direction.